


blood of mine

by demisms



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-05
Updated: 2012-05-10
Packaged: 2017-11-04 21:24:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/398349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demisms/pseuds/demisms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>AU where everything is happy. Rickon decides that Theon is his favorite brother, despite Theon's protests.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>written for the asoiaf kink meme</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**blood of mine.**

-

"Why don't you have a wolf?" Rickon asks one morning in the breakfast hall. He's still _little_ , legs swinging freely and only occasionally scuffing the toes of his boots on the rough stone of the floor. The dining hall of Winterfell has mostly emptied by then; the sun was high behind cold clouds and many had already eaten their fill and left. Rickon had stayed because he had spilled his porridge with honey and had fussed until someone sent for a new one, only to proclaim it was too hot and hurt his tongue. Theon had rolled his eyes, but stayed where he sat even as Robb and Jon left for the stables and a ride. Theon had stayed out of necessity - everyone in the castle knew not to leave the boy alone; he ran wilder than Arya - but not to be asked stupid questions.

He rolls his eyes.

"I'm not a Stark."

And it's bitter. Secretly so. He has had years to build up protective layers of japes and smirks against that fact; handles it better than Jon Snow ever has, but Lord Starks bastard has a direwolf and the people around the castle _talk_ of him like he were a true northerner. The Greyjoy, so removed and outshone by a sister he did not remember that he didn't even qualify as an heir to Pyke anymore, could not even preach that much. He would not even acknowledge it if he had a choice, but the questionings of a six year old are hard to dodge, and harder to derail.

Rickon's nose wrinkles and he dips his fingers into his bowl before letting Shaggydog lick them clean under the table. "I know that," he says, and when he speaks he sounds as if he has the deepest secrets of the kingdom figured out in his curly head of hair. "But don't you want one?"

"No," he responds easily enough and bites back a slight about there being _all the bitches for me in the town tavern_ and pours a goblet of weakened wine, wishing it were stronger. All the years in Winterfell, all the years spent among the Starks and the younger children still didn't interest him. He knew little of Bran and Arya other than he was bookish but adventurous, and she wild; he only ever paid attention to Sansa when brief thoughts of wedding her crossed his mind, bedding her in a few years and becoming brother to Robb by blood for true. But she was an airy headed thing, stuck in songs and stories of romance with no signs of removing herself from her dreams any time soon. Besides, marrying her would lead to the rest of the brood being his brothers and sisters, too. Arya, Bran, even Jon Snow in part. And Rickon.

Rickon who isn't deterred by a single word answer and goes on to proclaim that, if Shaggy were to have pups, he would give one to Theon. He cannot contain a snort then, more aggravated than bemused and his half smirk falters, slips into a grimace - _Shaggy isn't going to_ have _any pups._ \- as he pushes from the table.

The boy isn't eating and Theon hooks his hands under his arms, heaves him up and sets him to walking out of the hall. The dark shadow of a wolf follows behind and growls like he were prepared to jump Theon, tear is head off, and when he looks behind him, over his shoulders, he can't help but smirk at the beast.

 _No,_ he thinks. _I would not like a wolf._


	2. Chapter 2

Rickon quickly learns that if he wishes to keep Theon to himself, he need only slip into a seat by the older boy and keep toying with his food as others trickled off.

Theon quickly learned that Stark honor was rubbing off on him. He learns quicker to regret attending breakfast.


	3. Chapter 3

It is another breakfast (this time Rickon spilled his eggs and sausages onto the floor, and Nymeria and Shaggydog set on them before anyone could scoop them back up) when the boy shifts close and asks, blatant as ever;

"Am I your brother?"

Which stings a little bit, reminds Theon of some of his earlier years and playing with Jon and Robb. Jon had been a sour boy, sullen and weighted by problems he'd yet to learn to hide behind a smirk, but Robb had been friendly. The three of them had played in the godswood, hit each other with sticks and swam in the dark pond; they had been close enough, and for a time Theon had thought them brothers well enough. They were nicer than his own, didn't pinch him, punch him or grip the ropes on either end of the rope bridges of Pyke  in the middle of a wind storm and shook in hopes he would fall. They never held his head under the water and told him they were making an offering to the drowned god, and the one time Theon had tried doing so to Robb and made him angry, he had felt _bad_ for it. Bad for harming a brother.

But they weren't.

"No, boy," he says. "I am your lord father's ward."

"But I remember you," Rickon protests loudly. "I remember you when I was little. I remember you and Jon and Robb, and _they're_ my brothers."

"Aye, one true brother, one half your brother, and me neither." Really, why did no one serve strong reds with the morning fast? Not enough of them sat with child at their hip and his voice tinkling in their ear. "And two true sisters and another  brother. You've got family enough here without extra."

His face is still round with baby fat, and reddens with the perpetual anger that comes with children being denied what they wished. He looks about to protest but this time Arya descends on them, takes Rickon by the hand and drags him off to the crypts, or godswood, or somewhere - Theon didn't really care - before he could protest.


	4. Chapter 4

"There was a Theon Stark once."

"Aye, and he's dead now."

"But that's your _name_."

"And yours is Rickon. It is a namesake only, for Rickard Stark is dead now and you are not."


	5. Chapter 5

He dogs him everywhere, and Theon would laugh at the similarities between the boy and his stalking direwolf if he had not been so fed up with it. It's a task in and of itself to avoid the boy, and shaking him off in company without appearing to be shirking his friendly courtesies was nearly impossible. Robb notices, laughs and seems to take it as a good sign; _someone else in Winterfell enjoys a hint of the sea in their life,_ he jokes, but Theon is unamused.

He starts to avoid Robb, too, and Jon. All of the Starks and members of their households. He takes up more time with his bow and arrow until Rickon asks him for lessons, and spends increasingly more and more time in the small town outside the stone walls. He finds comfort in Ros, in her touches and kisses and skin; he hasn't to worry about being a brother of any sort there, nor any sort of displaced lord. It is in the depths of the northern whore house that Theon lets his mask of self-deception slip and reform. It us his place, where he is as good as any king and may do as he likes.

But the boy follows him _there_ too.

Only once, and when Theon catches him, he grips his arm so tightly it makes him whimper and nearly slaps him across the face. He raises his hand to do so, but the child begins to cry and when there is an absence of a snarl between them, Theon realized that he had left his wolf behind, too. Gone out after dark, alone in the streets and without his wolf for any sort of protection. The thought hits and makes something dark erupt in his chest, something that makes him kneel in the middle of the road and shake Rickon briefly.

"Go back to your brothers," he hisses at him. "Act like _them_." And he pulls him back to the castle by the collar.


	6. Chapter 6

Though had he known just how _to-heart_ the little boy would have taken his words, Theon might not have said them at all. 

There were two other Stark boys, and one Snow that was close enough to be called Stark, and two true sisters that Rickon seemed to deem fit enough to take traits of theirs; the worst they had to offer. He adopted Jon Snow's sullen silence, stared blankly at any person who chose to talk to him while Shaggydog growled dangerously at his feet. His temper, so like Robb before patient teachings had curbed his anger, flares again and has servants cowering in shock when he begins to scream at them. Arya's wildness could be found in Rickon _two_ fold, and Theon had to count on both hands to add up the times Lord Eddard had been forced to send search parties searching through the castle for the youngest Stark. And likewise he has the same disconnect with reality as Sansa, though while she chose to believe silly songs and promises of princes, he rejected rules and ignored the commands ( requests, pleas ) of his mother and father. Though none of the traits are as bad as the ones he adopts from Bran. 

For he starts to climb. 

Trees first, only to get scolded when his mother caught him at it. As much as Theon hates to admit it to himself, he's kept track of the number of times Rickon was brought before his father for a reprimand. Each week, Lord Eddard talks to him in the ways that Starks talk to each other, and each week the boy disregards his Stark vows not to climb again. It's only when he slips, falls from three branches up on an old oak surrounding the godswood, narrowly avoids rocks and lands on his back hard enough to crack his ribs does Rickon stop. And even then it is only because he is holed up in his room with his mother as a stern and silent guard at his bedside.

After that, the other children of Winterfell are set to guarding their youngest brother. He's never to be seen about without his mother, father, sisters or brothers, and Theon had never been so glad to not be counted a Stark, for it left him time - when Robb had to sit with Rickon and make him finish his meals - to spend by himself, time to think and time to reinforce those walls of impenetrable lies and smiles. More often than not, he escapes behind the stables and sits on a barrel of oats with his legs thrown languidly over the sides, blade picking at the wooden lid and head leaned back against the stone building as he looked at the sky. 

It always looked like snow. 

On the morning the youngest Stark ran off from Sansa and disappeared, the sky had looked of snow; thick and billowing clouds that promised frost as well as disturbance in the greater halls of Winterfell. Lord Eddard called the men and women of the castle, bayed them search the grounds and woods for Rickon and sent them off - in groups if they were to search beyond the walls, on their own if they were to go about the grounds. Robb and Theon parted ways at the gate, the ever valiant brother prepared to go out and conquer the world in search of his younger sibling while Theon felt a little sick. He had seen Sansa and the boy at the table at breakfast, seen how Rickon had shuffled and glared about mutinously and had the betraying thought that the boy would have never made those faces with him. 

It could be said that Theon Greyjoy felt a little bit responsible for this situation, but he could no better admit it to himself than he could Eddard Stark, and so he bit his tongue and searched the grounds; he checked the well, the lookout towers and the armory for hours before he gave up. And even then it wasn't truly giving up, he just slowly made his way toward the stables, no longer lifting his hands to cup around his mouth and shouting Rickon's name. The walls of Winterfell echoed with it, it bounced off the stone walls and Theon felt sure that, if he hadn't heard it by now, he wasn't hearing it at all. 

It was a discouraging thought. One met with an audible groan as he sat on the barrel around back and leaned his head back against the stone. There was a blinding quality to snow-laden clouds. They were white - so white they could be compared to the fresh feet of snow that greeted them all every morning, or to virginal laces that they dressed maidens in at King's Landing. Most days, snow clouds were pretty, but this day, Theon found himself sporting an already awful headache, and closed his eyes instead of forcing himself to look straight into the sky. The pressure was not alleviated immediately, however, not even the slightest bit, and he raised a hand to his face to pinch the bridge of his nose when the snow fell. 

Not flakes.

No. 

Face-fulls. 

Theon spluttered when the slush hit him full on in the face, and his eyes snapped open just in time to see little black boots scrambling for purchase on the stable roof for a few moments before vanishing from sight. 

"Rickon!" He shouted, and was startled by his own tone, more scolding and concerned than outright angry at the snow now melting in his hair and trickling down his spine. " _Rickon!_ "

Though when the shoes don't make an appearance over the lip of the roof again, Theon smothers the third cry and listens. There's nothing at first - _Rickon_ being shouted in the distance, barking dogs and the sound of people moving through a blanket of snow, perhaps, but nothing from above him, not even a caw of a bird or a shuffle of a squirrel through the flakes. When he exhales, Theon can see the hot tendrils of steam rise from his nose and mouth, and counts three breaths before he hears the faintest sound, slight and quiet as if it is trying to be muffled behind furs and shame; crying. 

"Rickon -" he calls insistently, annoyance tinging the edge of his voice in a successful attempt to smother the concern and general _relief_ the young Greyjoy felt building in his chest. Somehow that made him feel even more uncomfortable than before, so Theon paused - swallowed hard - and took a moment to compose himself before he spoke again. This time he was pleased to hear the sharp and demanding tone in his voice; a bit of him that tried very hard to be like Eddard Stark but continually fell short, a little too undercut with emotion. "Rickon, come down."

Silence. A sniffle. And then the quiet, tinkly and sickly voice filtered through the cold air to ground level, and Theon had to strain to hear it. 

"I - I can't."

He scoffed, and though not nearly enough time had passed for the situation to be properly funny, the corner of his mouth quirked up regardless. "Oh, really?" There is a mocking edge to his words that he wishes he knew how to cut out; belittling a scared child who had already run off and and climbed up onto a roof that he could not get off was not a good idea. "And why's that?"

Another pause. "I'm - I'm too cold."

And here Theon just wanted to laugh. It was the first time he could remember a Stark claiming they were too cold for anything! Cold, yes, Jon Snow and Robb used to complain of being cold, chilled to the bone as children but had still run and jumped and left him shivering in their wake as they climbed trees and fought imaginary foes. The old japes even insisted that ice ran through the Stark bloodline; ice ran through their veins, making them more suitable to the cold north than any southern lord or lady could be. It was just the matter of years acclimation and a gradually increasing collection of furs that Theon himself didn't freeze, but even Stark boys were supposed to have icicles dripping from their fingertips at any time of day. 

Though Rickon _had_ been missing for the better part of the day. Presumably he had been stuck on the roof of the Winterfell stables for hours on end in the cold and snow, only blessing being that The wind was low that day; there was no saying if that would have frozen him first, or blown him from his perch first. Either way, the boy was probably cold, and an icy son found was not quite as good as a live one. 

"Wait here," he called. "I'll go get your fat -"

"No!" And it's a small comfort that the boy still has the energy to shout, no matter how weakly. "No, don't leave me, Theon! Don't - please. Shaggydog's in the kennels and I don't want to be all alone up here. Please don't go!"

"How would you have me get you down? I've got to get your lord father, or at least your brother -"

The fretful, scared tears are still present in the boys voice when he speaks, voice thick with emotion and snot. "Couldn't _you_ just come get me?"

He groaned. "I'm no climber, Rickon."

" _Please?_ "

He had to sigh as the sound of sniffling and hiccuping and shivering reached him. He was not a good climber, hands frozen to the bone themselves and joints sore. His eyes felt dry and Theon felt the knee to blink a lot or else squint his eyes closely shut. Not to mention that the feet of his shoes were slicked with snowmelt and there were only small cracks in the stone of the stables, big enough for a child to use as handholds maybe, but not a near grown man. But at the same time he could not just leave the boy - something that was not reasoning about the likelihood of death on the rooftop for a child his side would not allow his feet from moving from their spot on the earth - and after a moments hesitation and another groan, the Greyjoy stripped off his gloves and cloak and approached the wall. 

"Alright. But _don't move._ "

It was tricky business, navigating the flat surface and hauling up his weight by the slightest of grips with his fingertips and tip toes; it was hard, and Theon slipped more than he cared to admit, labored to breathe as the cold cold air bit at his lungs, and scraped up the soft pads of his palms on the jagged stone. It only took a matter of minutes for him to get a hand over the snow covered ledge of the roof and pull up his elbow, then his entire top half. And that was when he saw him, small and huddle in his cloak, face and hair sprinkled with frost and lips positively blue. Rickon sat with his legs drawn up to his chest and arms concealed in the furs of his outer layers; he was hugging himself in an attempt to ward of the cold, and shivering so visibly it almost made Theon's teeth ache for him. There's a jape on the tip of his tongue, about the cold and snow and wall, but it escapes him as Theon remembers the first time he had sat outside for an extended period of time in Winterfell. It hadn't been on any roof of course, but rather the woods beyond the godswood, when he and Robb road out on their horses and Robb decided he wanted to try to catch catfish in the lake that had been frozen over at the time. Theon had sat on shore and shivered, in the new cloak that Lord Stark had given him as a sort of welcome to the castle, and by the time Robb returned to their horses, he had laughed and told Theon he had more snow in his hair than there were fish in the pond. 

He gestured to Rickon, jerked his hand toward himself. "Come on."

"No."

"And why _not?_ "

"I'm scared."

"Scared of what?"

He's chewing on his lip despite teeth trying their hardest to chatter and clack. "I - I do not want to fall. I do not want you to drop me."

And for the third time, Theon Greyjoy groaned. 

"I'm not going to drop you," but when the boy looked unconvinced and refused to move, he added; "I swear it to you, Rickon Stark. I shall not drop you until we're on the ground again, and then it just might be on the head to knock the idea of you ever doing anything like this out of that thick head of yours. Now give me your hand."

Though when he shifted, Rickon did not give simply his hand - he reached with his whole body and before Theon knew it he was having to do everything in his power to keep from becoming an oath breaker. The roof was not amazingly tall, but there was height enough to cause one or both of them harm if he were to slip. It is possibly only the saving grace that the child winds his arms around his neck, buries his little cold face in the crook of Theon's neck and wraps his legs around his middle in a vice like hold. It's tight, constricting, but it feels _good_ in a way; it reminds him that Rickon is safe and alive, here and tucked up under his chin in a way that makes it impossible to look down to see where he was putting his feet but was worth it all the same. It was by feel that Theon Greyjoy lead the two of them down the stone wall. By the end of the descent he misjudged the distance between them and the ground, and when he landed his legs buckled and sent both of them backwards into a shallow snow drift. 

It hurts. Knocks the breath from Theon and probably jars Rickon's legs, but when there is no instantaneous scream it's clear that there is no serious damage and Theon picks them up gingerly, one hand on the ground and one pressed to the small boys back. 

He's old. Old enough to walk, and he almost sets the child on his feet to frog march him to the keep, but just as he is shaking snow from his sleeves, Theon hears a faint whimper directly by his ear and can practically _feel_ the sniffling. 

Rickon was crying. 

 _It's alright,_ he wants to say. _Look, I didn't drop you,_ he wants to say but doesn't. Instead arms readjust the boy onto his hip, and Theon begins to walk back. The light has begun to fall and dark shadows loom around them, across the snow and the whole courtyard itself. There are still cries around, though, names shouted and dogs barking; they're still looking and Theon cannot bring himself to call them over, say he's found the Winterfell lordling and that he was crying. 

But he has to say _something._ It's a compulsion, really, and as he casts around for a thought, he settles on;

"Your brother is worried sick."

The sniffles continue, and when Rickon speaks he sounds as if he has a bad head-cold, which isn't helped by the fact he spoke into Theon's collar instead of to his face.

"Are you my brother now?"

And that gives him pause, though it is not as long as before. The old complaints and objections return, echo through his head in one constant stream of negativity, but the voices ( _they're his - always his own, never his father's or Ned Stark's_ ) are fainter now, and he has to wonder if they are as tired as he is of not knowing, not quite sure either way and not sure which to hope for. Rickon seems set in his hopes, and while Theon isn't convinced, it is... Nice to have someone who wishes him to be one or the other. A Greyjoy or a Stark, as he couldn't very well be both and didn't know where to draw the line. But if it what Rickon wanted - and perhaps what he needed to keep him from running away again, from doing dangerous things, to keep him from acting rashly in hopes of a big brother rescuing him some day - then who was Theon to deny him.

"...yes."

He hitched him up in his arms and let the child cry into his furs all the way back to the castle. 

(And secretly, that had felt good to say.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Authors Note:**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Or rather just an apology that part six took so long. It's kind of abeast, as you can see, and right from the get go it wasn't doing what I wanted it to. I'm not entirely happy with it and given the span of days it took me to actually muscle through it, there are probably some tense and continuation problems I'm not aware of. One day I hope to come back and properly revise this instead of doing the old write-and-post~
> 
> But...but those few things aside, I hope you enjoyed it! Don't forget to kudos, comment, bookmark - all that good stuff.


End file.
